


Let the sea be our lullaby

by Gwendelan



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwendelan/pseuds/Gwendelan
Summary: Arthur can't wrap his mind around the fact thatEames took a bullet for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This plot hit me all of a sudden and I just had to write the story down. I'm nowhere near done, but I do have to get some sleep at some point, and work has been kind of hectic lately, so I'm not sure when I'll find the time to write again, so don't expect it anytime soon.
> 
> Still not a native speaker, so if you spot any mistakes, let me know.
> 
> I chose not to use any warning, but I may be biased on what is a "graphic" depiction of a wound and the necessary medical procedure that follows, so let me know if you think I should use one.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments are love!

Arthur pulls the car over a few hundred yards from his safe house and sighs, chancing another glance at Eames, reclined in the passenger seat and eyes shut against the harsh sunlight. The forger's face is tight with pain, his usual tanned complexion now ashen gray, beads of sweat rolling down clenched jaws, and the point man winces in sympathy. He can't help the guilt at having made Eames endure the bumpy road with an untreated gunshot wound in his shoulder, but there was no time, no other choice. Their escape had been hasty and completely unplanned, the job seemingly forward enough that none of them had suspected how badly and how quick everything would turn wrong.

Arthur had woken up from the dream staring down the barrel of a gun. He'd barely had time to come to grips with the notion of _I'm about to die_ when the forger had seemingly torn out of the grip of another assailant, barreled into the man threatening to shoot him and wrestled with him for the gun. He'd taken a bullet in the struggle, but still managed to take possession of the revolver and fire a round at the mercs, killing one and wounding two others before Arthur had grabbed his collar with one hand, the PASIV with the other, and thrown them both through the busted window.

The fall had thankfully been short and the landing less chaotic than expected, but left Eames on the verge of passing out, and Arthur had wrapped an arm around the forger's back and forced him into a run. A few streets down, they'd stumbled upon an old car that didn't look like it had a functionning alarm, picked the lock and hotwired the ignition, and then they were fleeing the scene. As badly as he wanted to pull over and take a look at Eames, or lead them as fast as possible to the nearest secluded place, Arthur had had to fight his instincts and prove perfectly inconspicuous, scrupulously driving the speed limit and even enduring traffic to ensure that they lose an eventual tail.

That was more than an hour ago. Eames has stayed mostly silent for the whole ride, safe for a few bitten off moans and grunted words for water and a Tylenol. He's panting now, left elbow carefully cradled in his right hand, shirt soaked through with blood, but Arthur still has to scout the place, check they haven't been followed. He allows himself a brief squeeze of Eames's thigh, relieved when the forger slits his eyes open and turns to look at him.

"Gotta leave you alone for a few minutes, make sure we're safe. How bad is it?"

Eames swallows harshly, considers for a second.

"I'll be fine for a couple more minutes." He groans, head thumping against the window. "But be quick. Please."

Arthur gives him one last overall look and then nods, even though the forger's eyes are closed once more. He gets out of the car, jogs the remaining distance to the seaside cabin he's secured as a safe house years ago, while scoping the neighborhood for any sign of their assailants, and waits to be out of sight of the passers-by before he draws the gun Eames snatched earlier out of his waistband and punches in the alarm code. He takes his time clearing the place, though, because ensuring their continued safety is worth making Eames wait just a little while longer, as difficult as it is for him to not rush to his aid.

When he's deemed everything in order, he runs back to the car, surprised when he finds Eames halfway out of the passenger seat. He rounds the door in quick strides, ready to berate him for moving, finds the forger pissing in the patch of grass between his feet.

"Sorry, pet." He says, noticing Arthur's return. "Had to go badly with all that water."

The point man shrugs, appearing unbothered. "It's okay. Means your blood pressure isn't tanking so bad that your kidneys are failing, so I'll take it as a good sign."

It makes Eames smile shakily, and he counts it as a win. When he's done, Arthur helps him zip up and get back on the seat, then drives them to the cabin, parking the car as close to the door as possible.

He gets Eames out of the car and into the house as gently and efficiently as possible, laying him down carefully on the couch and wincing at the agonized half-whimper it pulls from the usually stoic forger.

"Don't move, I'll get the first aid kit. There should be something stronger than Tylenol in there."

"I certainly hope so." Eames gripes between clenched teeth.

He hasn't needed to stay in this place for a long time, but still made a point to come by regularly to clean up and make sure everything was in functionning order, check the expiration dates on the perishables, stock up on survival items. So he knows exactly where to look for the field-dose of morphine he keeps at all times for occasions such as this, and is immensely grateful for it when barely a couple minutes after the shot, Eames's traits start morphing from a pained grimace into a relieved dizziness.

"Better?" He asks, working to cut away the bloody shirt and tee underneath it.

"Yes. Thank you."

 _You shouldn't thank me, I'm the one you took a bullet for_. He bites back the brush-off, though, figuring there are more urgent matters to attend to.

"It's a through and through." He states with heartfelt relief. "You're lucky I won't have to dig the bullet out. And it's mostly stopped bleeding so I figure it didn't hit anything major. Still have to clean it and stitch it up, though. You want another dose?"

"Nah, figure I should be fine with this one. Do what you have to, I'll tell you if it gets to be too much."

"Works for me." He smiles, aiming for reassuring but probably closer to a desperately fake scowl.

He puts on a mask and a scrub cap, slips backward into a bathrobe and cinches it tight around his waist, and methodically washes his hands in the kitchen sink, trying to pretend they're not shaking, to maintain a cool and detached demeanor. Because Eames depends on him, needs him to be his competent and efficient self, and the terror and guilt-ladden meltdown he can feel tightening his chest and wrecking his stomach will have to wait until he's done what needs doing.

He dries his still-trembling hands and works on readying the supplies, opening packs of gauze and filling sterile cups with iodine and saline, rubbing cleaning alcohol on the pliers and needle driver and scissors and retractors, filling a syringe with lidocaine. Finally he slips on a pair of sterile gloves and takes a minute to close his eyes and breathe deep, gathering his wits, forcing the panic to recess to the back of his mind.

"Okay, Eames. I'm going to inject you with an anesthaetic before I do anything else, so you shouldn't feel too much. Still, if anything feels wrong, I need you to tell me immediately. Okay?"

"I trust you, Arthur."

That sentence almost sends him for a spin, but he makes himself focus on the task at hand. Everything else can wait.

The next hour is filled with the repetitive task of push-and-pull, thread, knot, cut. Whatever noises Eames makes, Arthur tunes out, because he's pretty sure he'd empty his stomach all over the floor otherwise. But the wound's closing, and the towels beneath Eames's shoulder don't seem to be soaking up anymore blood. It will leave an ugly scar on the swell of his deltoid, but Arthur figures the forger won't mind it so much. His torso is already littered with raises and grooves and criss-crossing white lines, some of them hidden under several layers of ink. It's not disfiguring a tattoo, at least.

By the time he puts in the last stitch, the sun is sinking below the horizon and they're both ready to pass out. Arthur meticulously dries and covers the wound on both sides, then finally lets himself become aware of his surroundings once more, and what he sees makes him gasp in renewed anguish.

Blood and torn flesh, everywhere, from the bloody footprints they left on their way in to the soaked gauze pads and towels strewn all over the floor. Clear teartracks amidst the dirt covering Eames's ghastly pale face, lips bitten raw and fingers clenched white-knuckled around fistfuls of couch cushions.

Arthur has an horrific and vivid imagery of pliers and retractors going back and forth through raw, tender flesh, and he reaches a suddenly frantic hand toward the second field-dose of morphine in his kit but gags halfway through and barely has time to bend over a trashcan before he loses his lunch, or whatever last meal he had. He dry heaves for a while longer, hearing Eames spouting concerned enquiries behind him, manages to get himself back together enough to inject the wounded forger with the much-needed painkiller before giving in to everything he's been choking back since they were ambushed and collapsing against the couch, shaking from head to toe, sobs tearing from his throat in a way he hasn't allowed himself in years.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Eames, I can't stop, I can't…" His thoughts are blurring together, images swirling before his eyes faster than he can comprehend, and he can't seem to catch his breath, lungs working against the terrible weight crushing his chest, limbs spasming and -

"Arthur. Listen to me. You have to _breathe_ , darling, come on." The forger's right hand is squeezed around his nape, tilting his head back as Eames tries to catch his eye, face a mask of concern and still tight with pain and it's all _Arthur's fault_ \- 

"Hey. Hey, hey, Arthur, I need you to breathe for me. Okay? Don't force it, let it happen. You're having a panic attack, but it's fine, we're fine. Do you hear me? Arthur, come on."

He notices Eames counting his own breaths, in, and out, not too slow, and the point man tries to mimic him, marginally succeeds to regulate his own after a while. He can't seem to stop the tears or the uncontrollable shivers wracking his body, though, but the forger looks at least reassured that Arthur's not going to pass out from hyperventilating, and starts petting his head, muttering tired and jumbled nonsense that still soothes his frailed nerves.

"It's okay, pet, let it all out. Let it happen, adrenaline let down is a bitch, but you did good, we're safe, you can let go. Just keep breathing, okay? You'll feel better soon, and I'm all better, thanks to you. It's okay."

After long minutes, the tears and sobs subside, safe for the occasionnal hiccup. His face is mashed against the side of Eames's hip and the forger's hand is still mindlessly sifting through his hair, and he's terminally embarassed but doesn't want to move, not yet. Soon he will have to get up and clean up the mess, get them some food, tuck them both into bed. But not right now.

Right now, he breathes and lets the gentle carress on his scalp reassure him that they are indeed safe and sound, alive if not whole, and burrows closer into the couch and Eames's body until he gains back the control over his limbs.

It's long minutes before he rises, throat still too closed up for words but giving Eames's hand a firm squeeze both in thanks and reassurance. He orders a pizza and sweeps the floor while he waits, making sure to wipe all the remaining blood stains and stow away the clothes and towels to be burned later. They're both fresh-faced and Eames's shoulder is dressed and hidden beneath a clean shirt, left arm in a sling, long before the delivery guy knocks on the door. They eat in silence, barely managing a third of the pizza each, before their rapidly dwindling energy drives them both to collapse unceremoniously on the single queen bed the cabin possesses. Arthur twists and pulls at bodies and sheets until they're both lying under the covers, limbs tangled together on a mattress barely wide enough to accomodate two relatively tall men, but Eames shuts down any qualms Arthur might have had by plastering his back against the point man's front and inviting him to wrap an arm around his waist, boxing him in and preventing the forger from rolling onto his bad shoulder, and then promptly passing out.

The close proximity is certainly new, but Arthur has a feeling he wouldn't be able to sleep without Eames within immediate reach, anyway.

The sound of the waves lapping at the shore gently lulls him into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally found the time to write another chapter. There's more to come, but I'm working on my thesis so I can't really give you a timeframe.  
> Kudos and comments (even criticism!) welcome as always!

He wakes up in total darkness gasping, blood and chaos imprinted beneath his eyelids, and manages just enough self control to tumble out of bed without jarring Eames before he's choking on sobs, making his clumsy way through the small living area until he can push open the back door and collapse on the steps leading down to the beach. His limbs are shaking, chest heaving and belly churning, and he grips the wooden edges of the stairs in a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the real, waking world, where they left their assailants hundreds of miles away and with absolutely no way to track them down.

He's mumbling to himself, _We're safe, we're alive, we're safe_ , like a never-ending mantra. It serves as much to reassure himself as to force him to even his breaths, and after a while it seems to work, body loosening just enough that he can lean back against the wall and close his eyes, letting the quiet sounds of the sea soothe his overactive mind.

Planning is what he does best, and it's proven time and time again to be a proficient way of channeling his concerns and restless energy, so he tries to distract himself with envisionning what lies ahead of them, re-arranging their priorities. Eames's bullet wound isn't life threatening, but the risk of infection very real, so staying put for the first few days would probably be for the best. He had the foresight to stock up on a couple of antibiotics, but they will probably need to ensure Eames can undergo the full treatment, so their first step is making the trip to the closest pharmacy. They'll need to forge a prescription, but if Eames isn't up to the task Arthur is relatively sure he can step in and make something adequate enough.

Second step would be changing locations, meaning leaving the country. Arthur has a number of safe houses around the world, but Eames probably does too ; they will need to discuss where to go and how to get there. They've become experts at erasing trails and disappearing into thin air. Arthur has a couple different passports on hand, from various countries ; he will have to check with Eames, but the forger probably has everything covered on his end.

Assuming they will leave together. Arthur's anxiety suddenly spikes anew at the idea of leaving the wounded forger behind – or being left behind. They're friends, have been since inception, four years ago, even if neither of them voiced it as such. Arthur doesn't have many friends, and after such a nerve-wrecking cock-up of a job he's not sure he could cope without one. For as long as he's been in the dreamwork business, real-life shootings remain thankfully seldom, and Arthur's usual caution means that on his part, this was his first topside encounter with a gun. His brain doesn't let him forget that he woke up with a cold barrel pressed to his forehead, and only Eames's ex-SAS training got him out of there alive.

Sewing him up had been the last straw. He'd been prepared for such an eventuality ; wouldn't be the best in the business otherwise. But watching Youtube videos and practicing on ripe bananas certainly couldn't compare to reality, to the smell and sight of warm torn flesh and pumping blood and Eames's pained groans as he had stitched the gaping hole in his shoulder.

He starts shaking once more. He knows, intelectually, that it could have been much worse, one or both of them dead somewhere in a ditch, or Eames dying on his watch for lack of sufficient medical care. But knowing doesn't make it any easier on his frailed nerves.

Soft footsteps over creaking floorboards stir him from his thoughts and he looks up just in time to find Eames walking over the door's threshold, their stares meeting for a brief second before the point man has to turn away, hoping the darkness cloaks them enough to conceal his red eyes and damp cheeks.

"You okay?" The forger whispers, carefully settling down beside him.

"I should be the one to ask you that."

"I'm fine. Shoulder burns a little but it's much better now it's all taped up, and the morphine definitely helped. And it itches, but that's to be expected. But I was asking about _you_ , pet. You look quite shaken up."

Shame and guilt flood him up like the panic did, earlier, and he finds himself swallowing compulsively against the tears rising up once more. He's a _mess_. He's a mess, and he's no good to anybody in this state. His failure at being an adequate point man got them both in harm's way when it should have been a routine job, and Eames got shot, and that's unacceptable.

"I'm so sorry, Eames." He garbles, head bowing in embarassement. "I'm… trying my best, I really am, but it's not good enough and I'm sorry."

There's a pause, the forger tensing beside him, and Arthur braces himself for the well-deserved chewing he knows he's about to get.

"What the bloody heck are you talking about?" And Eames sounds genuinely bewildered, nowhere near the accusatory tone the point man expected, and it's even worse, because now Arthur has to admit to his incompetence, before it gets them in any more trouble.

"I should have researched the client better. Should have noticed… inconsistencies, in his demands, or whatever. We were blindsinded, and then you had to take a freaking bullet to save my life when I didn't deserve this and I'm so fucking sorry, Eames, I understand if you never want to work with me again but you have to understand right now I'm trying my best because you're injured and you should be able to rely on me and I'm sorry if that's not enough -"

The forger's arm wrapping around his shoulders and hauling him in a crushing hug stops him mid-rant.

"You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, Arthur, where the hell did that come from?" He presses his lips against the younger's temple and cups his nape in a protective hand. "You couldn't have known. There was nothing unsavory about that man and a request to be militarized is certainly not something conspicuous enough to rise suspicion. It's not your fault he had an ulterior motive, and it's certainly not your doing that I stepped in front of a bullet that was aimed for you _head_ , Arthur. You can't expect me to just watch from the side and not intervene if I can. And I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound, and you did a bang-up job patching me up, and I trust your paranoia enough to know that we're as safe as can be. So stop doubting yourself, because I never would. You're the most competent point man I know and I wouldn't work with anyone else. So just stop, okay? Relax. We're fine."

They're not. _They're not_ , Arthur knows, but the forger's words make sense, and that's an argument he won't try too hard to win. He lets himself lean into Eames's warm embrace, taking comfort in his solid and unwavering presence, and feels as a few scattered tears of relief soak into the fabric of his shirt.

"That's it, pet. You did good. We're safe. You can let go."

He doesn't, not entirely, because letting go would mean sobbing all over the forger and Arthur's dignity probably couldn't take it. But it's been far too long since he's last allowed himself some measure of human comfort, and Eames's arms around him feel like forgiveness, so he presses even closer to the forger's chest and soaks up his warmth, lets their breaths fall in sync, until the rigidity in his spine loosens to a more natural curl and he can feel himself start to drift.

The half moon reflecting over the water offers just enough light for him to discern the hammock still swinging softly in the wind between two sturdy palm trees and he remembers why he picked this place as a safe house, remembers thinking that he wouldn't mind staying here for as long as it took for things to settle down, in this little corner of paradise.

"We should go back to sleep." Eames whispers gently against his temple, and Arthur nods, reluctant to leave the safety of their embrace but realising the forger probably needs the comfort of a bed more than he's letting on.

So he gets to his feet, hauls Eames up by his good arm and steers them both back inside until Eames is carefully tucked in and his face loses its pained edge. He hesitates, then, casting a look at the narrow couch in the main room, but the forger slits open an eye and makes a grab for his hand, and Arthur readily lets himself be manhandled until they're completely entwined, breathing in each other's air, limbs entangled and the other man's hand sifting through the hair at the back of his head, lulling him to a doze.

"Thank you for letting me do this." Eames murmurs after a while, obviously thinking him asleep. "When I woke and saw that gun pointed at you, I thought I was about to lose you. It would have torn me apart."

And Arthur realizes that he may not be the only one needing reassurance, that all the cuddling they've been doing wasn't solely for his benefit. He opens his eyes to meet the forger's embarrassed gaze, shuffles impossibly closer.

"No, Eames. Thank you. For saving my life. For talking me out of two panic attacks. For being here."

"Well, thank you for not leaving me behind." The forger chuckles lightly, but there's an undercurrent of vulnerability that only someone who knows Eames could hear.

Arthur tightens his hold around the other man's chest.

"I would never. I need you to know that, okay? I'll always come for you, whatever the risks. That's what – what friends are for."

Eames remains unnaturally still for a moment, then the last of the tension leaves his frame in a relieved sigh and he gently brushes his lips against Arthur's forehead, right where they pressed a gun, a handful of hours earlier.

"I like the sound of that." He whispers.

Against his collarbone, he can feel Arthur smile.

"Go to sleep, Mr Eames."


End file.
